


Be Your Love

by TheOneAndOnlyHades



Series: The View From Halfway Down [2]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Mild Smut, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23536696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOneAndOnlyHades/pseuds/TheOneAndOnlyHades
Summary: A gray attempts to seduce the Antichrist with wit and lots of alcohol.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Reader, Michael Langdon/You
Series: The View From Halfway Down [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695139
Comments: 17
Kudos: 101





	Be Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> So quarantine has me acting a fool. This is actually a deleted part from my Michael x Reader fic, "Heavy Dirty Soul" I didn't like the direction this went originally and went an entirely different route. This has been in my notes for over a year. I buffed up the writing and tried to make it a stand-alone one-shot instead.
> 
> The title is from Bishop Briggs, "Be Your Love"

Another bleak night falls in Outpost Three. With most of the occupants having retreated to their designated quarters, you anticipate Michael's arrival at any moment. 

Venable decided to barge herself into the office earlier this evening whilst you were organizing Michael's mess of paperwork. She looked blatantly disgusted at the close proximity Michael was looming over your shoulder. Sleeping next to him most nights, you've grown accustomed to his stifling presence so the nearness is nothing unusual. Not that Venable knows any of that. Michael caught the flicker of rage behind her stare. Adding insult to injury, a grey looking over cooperative files? That won't do. She mentally notes how curt he answers her, yet with you, he's humble. You were excused and unexpectedly felt strange as her eyes followed you out.

Once her favored grey, she now abhorred your very existence. 

You're all pawns in Michael's insidious game. Venable will soon realize.

Time reveals all truths.

Now you're bored out of your mind and waiting like an asshole.

There's an unfinished chess game across the room waiting to be played. Having discovered Michael was definitively cheating when his fingers were looming over certain pieces as you were contemplating your moves, a new game was started. Switching up the technique, you played a different opening move, starting d4, rather than your infallible e4 you're so fond of.

The game stalled when Michael dragged ass deliberating and you grew tired of waiting. _He's so intelligent yet so exceedingly indecisive. It's_ utterly maddening.

Since your typical pastime requires an additional party, reading will suffice.

_Guess I'll fuck around and kill time..._

Picking a book off your desk, you plop your ass on the bed and settle in. 

A favored classic. The Outpost has an impressive library for being an underground hellhole. Though a new novel and the scent of fresh books are a missed memory.

_'Abroad to waft me as on viewless wings,_   
_I'd prize it far beyond the costliest dress,_   
_Nor would I change it for the robe of kings.'_

Nerves jumbled, fingers fiddle with the corners of pages from the book you're currently paying scant mind to. Eyes are glancing over words but your brain isn't retaining. The spine feels rough. It feels heavy in your hands. You're hyperfocused on the details of the book's appearance rather than the passages.

A considerable amount of pages are amber stained. Parts of the delicate blue buckram show years of damage. The spine is separating and scuffed above the gold gilt stamp bearing its title.

_Snap the fuck out of it bitch._

Drinks are necessary. Many of them.

Old fashioned liquid courage is required for what you scheme to accomplish tonight.

"Hasn't worked with anyone else..."

_That I know of_

_Don't be fucking stupid..._

Giving yourself pep talks for what felt like an eternity, you suddenly remember the bottle of scotch Michael left. Mentally cursing at yourself for not recalling sooner, you're hurrying to lift the foot end of the mattress. Lo and behold, there it is.

He didn't leave you much to work with, but it's enough to sure as hell get the job done.

Not an hour later, you're good to go.

Quality entertainment comes in the form of you attempting to get downstairs without busting your ass.

\-------------------

Liquored up, inhibitions abandoned, you quietly stumble your way back towards the office.

Meaning to knock, you somehow ended up rubbing the door instead, leaning against it as support. The wood feels cool against your heated skin. Michael scares the shit out of you by opening it abruptly; almost losing your footing in the process. Thankfully, Venable was nowhere in sight and he seems rather amused at your inept attempt at knocking.

Motioning you to step inside, you promptly shuffle past him.

_"I see someone started without me."_

"I may have finished the remainder of the bottle you left upstairs."

Settling yourself atop his desk, he's unconcerned as he reaches for the bottom drawer to reveal two glasses and his personal stash of booze.

_"Without a glass? How undignified."_

"You have the fancy glasses. So, I made due. By directly connecting the bottle... to my mouth."

He's pouring two fingers worth in each glass as you stupidly point to your mouth to demonstrate your point. He knows you're well past a slight buzz with the way you're speaking. This game has been played many times now. It's usually you, entirely too intoxicated, while he's wrangling your body into bed. What usually follows are incoherent mumbles of adoration from hushed whispers and entangled limbs. Recollection on your behalf is long forgotten when sleep overtakes. That's classified information that he, under no circumstances, would divulge. Especially not to you.

Michael hands you a glass. Raising them in unison, he toasts...

_"May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you're dead."_

His goes down in one gulp. Yours isn't going as quickly.

Bottle in hand, not one to wait, he's already refilled his glass. 

"Hm. Maybe with my final stint with death, I'll get lucky. What's with the ominous toast this evening?"

Easing back into his chair, he downs his drink without pause.

He singlehandedly rubs his face in frustration.

"So, how bad did Venable attempt to ream your asshole?"

A small chuckle slips past his lips. Your colorful vocabulary seems to intrigue him.

_"She tried."_

"I'm sure she did."

_"With the untimely death of Evie Gallant, it seems as though Venable thinks with her gone, that means an open slot..."_

"And she came here to what? Beg? Does she want to have her back blown out by Mr. Langdon in order to get into the sanctuary?"

The annoyed eye-roll and audible groan he lets out makes you giggle.

"Oh come on, you haven't thought about giving her your 6 pounds of sound? An orgasm might do her some good. Maybe she won't be such a fucking bitch."

He cocks his eyebrow at you, slightly offended at your remark.

"What?" Barely containing your laughter.

_"Nothing."_

Having just downed your drink, your personal bartender is prepping the next round.

_"I'm sure she has plans in mind. You two are a tie for biggest pain in my ass at the moment."_

"Well now, that just won't do."

Downing the remnants of his drink, he fiddles with his empty glass while he waits for you to play catch up. He discerns you're struggling to keep pace, already having consumed a considerable amount, but he admires your tenacity.

Michael notices your body starts to sway and your hands need to grip the desk for leverage. Your legs won't stop swinging. Bringing his chair closer, he grabs your calves to bring your feet against his knees.

"Thanks."

_"I think you're cut off."_

"Why?"

_"Is that a serious question? You're barely upright."_

"You're barely upright." You mock.

_"You're done."_

He lunges forward at an attempt to take your drink away. You hold it over your head like a mischievous child. He doesn't need to use actual physical force to win this battle. This is a conscious endeavor on his end. Several tries later, you settle on an accord when he deliberately tickles your knee, causing you to nervously squirm. Not one to go gently into that good night, you gulped the remainder of the glass before handing it over to him.

Michael seems pleased with himself. As always. Pouring himself another drink - an entire glassful this time - was swallowed with avidity. He paused and paced himself when he realized you were staring at him, laughing, while he practically moaned into his alcohol.

Leaning forward, you 'boop' him on the nose, as he let's out yet another exasperated sigh. You swiftly take his drink and down it while he's probably questioning why he still keeps you around.

_"You're quite transparent you know."_

"And yet, you still didn't stop me..."

Michael's eyes are continually assessing his surroundings, nothing goes unnoticed. Right now, scantily clad in a slightly draped open robe that keeps riding up, arms crossed against your chest at an attempt to hide further evidence of your depravity, you're the subject to be dissected and studied as you fidget uncomfortably under his watchful gaze. If he wasn't onto your ploy before, he sure as hell was now. 

Stark naked underneath your robe, it's no mystery what tricks you had up your sleeves. As if the use of feminine wiles would have any effect in this circumstance, but fuck if you weren't attempting it.

_What the fuck is wrong with me? I can't do this_

_"Something on your mind...Y/N?"_

The lazy drawl and lustful glance give implications of his amorous desires.

"Uh, no."

A boldfaced lie.

_"Really?"_

Shifting your attention to the folders neatly stacked at the corner of the desk, it occurs to you that you've never seen your own file. A handful of them are unaccounted for. It made no sense unless the files were already disposed of.

"Um, m-my file. It's not here."

_"And?"_

"Why?"

_"Why does it matter?"_

The mounting tension could be felt penetrating your very core.

"Did you already destroy my file?"

He stares at you uncomfortably for a moment before startling you by reaching into one of the bottom desk drawers. There appears to be a few files concealed; yours amongst them. Without a word, he drops it onto your lap and rises to his feet.

Hands shaking, the fear of opening the dreaded file looms in your stomach. Sensing your trepidation, Michael takes it and leaves it open next to you. Carefully hopping off the desk to not show the tits or snatch, you breathe deeply and start to skim through your life; reduced to summaries in documents.

Michael is beside you. Silent. Only the sounds of swallowing are heard as he downs booze straight from a new bottle. A few pages later, you uncover hospital records. Ones you thought were destroyed.

Anger flares within you. 

"You have them."

_"I have my ways. My mind is a veritable well of infinite knowledge."_

Shutting the folder, your head begins to spin. _Deep breaths._

_"I can recite, solely off your memories, every individual wound inflicted, consecutively. The records aren't required. You know this..."_

Feeling his body leaning close, you straighten yourself upright.

His breath feels warm against your skin as he whispers graphic, private details that aren't on paper. Aspects no one but yourself and the others involved could possibly know. He scares you when his fingers graze along your ribcage, stopping exactly at your scar without looking.

_"This was the final one."_

Instinctually, your body stiffened.

"You hid it. Why?"

Nothing is confessed as he snatches his bottle and settles into a seat across the room.

"Michael."

_"I didn't feel it was necessary for you to see. I thought maybe, with everything you've been through, it wouldn't be best. That's all."_

It didn't explain the other files hidden along with yours, but for now, you accept it.

"Ok."

_This isn't over_

There isn't a substantial logical explanation behind Michael's reasonings. Prevarication is part of his craft. The issue won't be avoided long, because Michael knows you won't let it go. You're temporarily assuaged, which for now, is sufficient.

Emotions elevated; skin burning, you look at the chiseled faced motherfucker leisurely sitting across the room and you remember why you traipsed your drunk ass down here.

Drunkenly sauntering towards the fireplace, your heart is racing frantically. The decision had been made final just moments prior.

_I'm a dead woman walking either way. Fuck it._

Michael's perched on the leather chair, eyes closed with his bottle securely nestled in his hand. He's still speaking so he hasn't passed out yet.

A half-assed attempt to extract the booze from his hand was fruitless. 

"I think it's time we both call it quits."

_"I'll be up in a few."_

The words saturate your thoughts. He's evading leaving with you.

"Come up with me..."

You're whining but judging by the slurring, he gathers you don't realize it.

Subtly caressing your fingers against his hand, his grasp on the bottle slackens, allowing you access to retrieve it and settle it down safely. 

He groans in objection.

Unfaltering, your fingernails lightly graze his knee. Pressure is applied as your hand reaches further up his thigh. He freezes upon the sensation coursing through him. 

Hastily pulling away, only the sounds of heavy breathing is heard within the crepitating sounds of dying embers.

"Michael..."

No answer.

One tentative step leaves Michael's thigh between your legs. The contact kindled the flame with a startling jolt. Leaning in, fingers delicately brush along the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline. His eyes open from the gesture.

"Come on."

Unsure if it's the alcohol or fucking delirium, you proceed in invading his personal space. Legs meet against soft leather as your bare cunt takes residence on Michael's crotch. Seems his composure wasn't the only frightening aspect of this whole endeavor. _I suppose his arrogance is warranted._ Completely flustered, burying your face in his neck is a solace. His scent is soothing. Anxious; shifting your body slightly causes your hips to unintentionally grind on him. A suppressed groan rumbled in his throat. Demurely fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, you experimentally roll your hips once more. He gently threads his arms around you, steadily restraining movement.

The precarious situation you've placed yourself confounds you; prod the creature enough and it's bound to react. Foolishly, you're willingly surrendering yourself at the mouth of the beast, urging him to bite. Being bitten isn't anything to behold, but there's beauty in being savored before ultimately being devoured.

So ardently you aggravate this monster.

The devil's bastard son.

Just to feel the scrape of his teeth.

Hoisting your hips, you're able to jostle free and meet Michael, eye to eye.

Hands wander as stares remain unwavering. Lips balance on edge but never touch. Nimble fingers find and work the zipper of his elegant pants. His chest heaved suddenly upon contact. A moan slips moments later when you increased your strokes.

Becoming brazen, which could possibly be attributed to the scotch, you begin running Michael's dick through your folds.

When a hand wraps around your throat, you tense.

A warning.

_"You don't want this."_

"Yes I do."

His grip tightens slightly. His breath fills your mouth.

A threat.

_"You're not ready."_

It doesn't stop you. His resolve is crumbling with every stifled moan. Hands now at ease, you proceed with caution.

Positioning carefully, you prepare to lower yourself onto him. _Deep breaths. I can do this._ Michael's hands grip under your thighs, forcing your actions to stop.

_"Not like this. You're drunk."_

"So are you."

_"No, I'm not."_

_Did I really misconstrue this whole thing?_

_I'm drunk. Not fucking stupid._

"I know what you ache for. The ever-present hunger that grates just under the surface... We want the same things. I may not be like you, but I can feel it."

Michael recognizes your vulnerability. He wants to mar the remainder of your unblemished skin with his branding. Crush your windpipe with his bare hands. It's intimate. Loving. Yet, he wants to nurture you. Save you. Michael already determined your fate.

You feel his arms lowering you slightly. His eyes darken, his voice stern.

_"Say it."_

"Say what?"

_"Your mind is encumbered with many things but right now, one thought silences them all. Say it."_

It occurs to you that the fucking bastard had been trudging around your inebriated mind.

_"Say it and we'll go upstairs and I'll finish what you started."_

It was then you realized what he was hinting at. What he heard.

"If you already know, why do you need to hear it?"

Michael looks at your face with feral intensity.

_"Why can't you say it?"_

Infuriated at the current situation, you remove yourself from his lap. This was a fucking mistake.

"I don't expect you to reciprocate. So why does it matter? I'm throwing myself at you. Just asking you to fuck me. That's it. Which, thinking back now, is very fucking stupid on my part. ...Shouldn't have bothered. Just forget it."

_**'Say the words. That's all I'm asking.'** _

"Get the fuck out of my head."

Standing promptly, causing you to step back, he adjusts himself, placing his dick back in his pants as you turn away as if you weren't just attempting to fuck him moments ago.

Once perfectly composed, the unmistakable presence of his body alarms you. With eyes adverted, you hadn't noticed he moved until his fingers ghost your face.

_"Come on. You need to sleep."_

Unsure whether it was the alcohol wearing off or if Michael was pulling one of his tricks, probably a mixture of both, but anxiety set in before a strange calm washed over you. Your eyelids struggled to stay open. Michael whispers; you slip under.

\----------------------------

Unexpectedly rousing from a restless slumber, you're bound in place. Michael's arm has a vice grip across your stomach. He must have realized you've woken up. He gently runs his fingers through your hair. Lightly rubbing your scalp, cause he knows it relaxes you.

It's dark, save for the soft flicker of warm, dying embers in the fireplace.

"I'm sorry about tonight."

_"Go back to sleep."_

Assuming he's avoiding an uncomfortable conversation, your stupid mouth decides now is a great time for confessions.

You could just blame it on the alcohol come morning.

"It's true, you know. What you heard."

_"I know."_

"It's stupid. I know. I just wanted you to know."

Not another word is spoken.

With you silently lulled back to sleep, Michael's thoughts are kicked into overdrive.

He lays awake, watching you. The events of the evening replay over in his mind. His thoughts are silenced when you shifted in your sleep and curled up against him on your own volition.

Prior to succumbing to sleep, he allows his own confession. 

_"I feel it too..."_

**Author's Note:**

> The book and quote from the beginning are Goethe's Faust.


End file.
